The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (24 page)

“Wasn’t there a serial killer about ten years ago who turned himself in because he felt it had become a waste of time?”

“You’re thinking of the one who surrendered in 1973. He said his original purpose was gone once he’d worked around to killing his mother.” Fletcher added more forcefully, “But this one won’t ever lose the taste for it.”

“Once again, you’re projecting your warped intuition onto this man’s behavior.”

A pause before Fletcher continued, enthusiasm only slightly abated, “You’re right, I  have to be careful not to make assumptions. It just feels so right sometimes, it fits so well - but I must always trace that back to whether it’s based in fact or feeling.”

“Yes,” Albert said. He’d forgotten how devastatingly honest Ash could be about himself. But that wasn’t a reason, in itself, to believe everything the man said.

“This guy, with his handful of killings in each state every two years - he’s not finished yet, he could keep doing this for a long time. He’s still in control of it. We have to worry about when it escalates, gets beyond him. Once he breaks out of his pattern, anything goes.”

“But surely he won’t break out of the pattern very far. Which is why no one believes your theories, when something as central as the cause of death is different in each case.”

“I know, I know.” The younger man sighed. “Okay, I  guess we have to treat Oregon as just another option for now.”

They briefly ran through the other options, which were looking less and less likely. There had been a body found in Texas that broadly fitted the MO Fletcher was looking for, but the boy had been killed almost four months before the two years was up, with no other bodies found since then. Another one had been found in Georgia. Fletcher wouldn’t rule it out, on the grounds that the man was more than capable of that sort of double-think, but again there were no related cases during that time. There had also been a possibility in Arizona but an arrest had been made within the last few days. Ash was apparently sickened that the alleged offender had been the victim’s best friend.

“It happens,” was Albert’s offhanded comment.

“Is that a threat?”

“Don’t be revolting. There is, far more often than not, a close link between the murderer and the victim.”

“No need to lecture me, Albert, that’s partly how I’m ruling most of these cases out.”

Fletcher rarely took Albert’s barbs that seriously these days. Albert let a beat go by before asking, “Are you going to Oregon?”

“Not yet. Caroline said she’ll approve the travel if they find a second body with the same MO.” Fletcher laughed. “She probably only agreed in order to shut me up.”

“No doubt. Let me know, and I’ll accompany you.”

“I was hoping you would. Any chance of Jefferson considering it official business?”

“Highly improbable. I’ll use some of my rostered days off.”

“Thanks, Albert.” A pause. “Let me pay the airfare.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Silence again. Fletcher, who had finally begun to suspect that Albert was not solely dependent on his salary, seemed to be on the brink of asking something that would no doubt be difficult to answer. But all he ended up saying was, “If nothing more happens in Oregon, is it still okay for me to visit for the weekend?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t forget the roulade.” Then Fletcher said goodbye and hung up the phone.

After a moment, Albert put the handset down. He hated lame and drawn-out farewells, as Fletcher knew. But this one felt lame and abrupt, and Fletcher was obviously unhappy, probably disturbed at this new evidence of what he perceived to be his failure. And Albert couldn’t offer anything to help, especially over the phone. He sighed and went to his study, where he tried to lose himself in the latest British research on the possibility of DNA profiling, which was of course exactly what Fletcher needed to prove that the same offender had committed all these crimes. But it appeared that the technique wouldn’t be available for months, if not years.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WASHINGTON DC

OCTOBER 1984

The drive from the airport was accompanied by a CD, loudly played, of something called
Carmina Burana
. Fletch listened to it with more than a little surprise. The first part was suitably dark and ominously dramatic. But then, “What’s this next bit about?”

“It is called
Primo vere
, or
Spring
.”

It was light and joyous and sexy, and didn’t seem to suit Albert’s dour demeanor at all. “This is lovely.”

“Sublime,” Albert informed him, though he seemed totally unaffected by the burgeoning music.

For a few minutes, within the car at least, fall was banished and spring was celebrated. Fletch thought of fresh green leaves and soft warm air, of infinitely clear blue skies and the urge to share all that joy with another human being. His hand itched to slide over to rest on Albert’s thigh - which Albert would be furious at, even though no one could possibly see them.

To distract himself, Fletcher concentrated again on the music. Spring’s joy had ended, and the dark had returned. This part was grim and boisterous, deep male voices at times turning sharp and discordant. “Tell me about this,” Fletch asked. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

And for the rest of the journey, Albert did so, though he fell silent again as soon as they reached home. Albert headed directly to the kitchen.

Fletch trailed after him, a wry twist to his smile. “When I said I missed your cooking,” he murmured, “it
is
true that I missed your cooking as well.”

Albert just stared at him for a moment, before saying sardonically, “Don’t feel shy, Ash, and don’t let taste or discretion restrain you - just come right out of your shell and ask for sex if that’s what you want.”

Fletcher’s smile grew. “You could come help me unpack,” he suggested.

“You need assistance with the contents of one rather small overnight bag?”

But Albert was already approaching him, taking Fletch by the hand to lead him to Albert’s bedroom.

The air was so crisp and clear that Fletch felt like he was floating in champagne. It had been easy to let go, exhilarating to leave the struggle behind. He grinned now, spread his arms wide and arched to lean back into the careless freedom of it.

A sheer wall of rock sped away to the sky, and the first doubt chilled him. Below, far away but noticeably closer every second, water foamed over rocks in a narrow gorge. He’d known it was there and yet he hadn’t wanted to bother hanging on or climbing those last few feet to safety, hadn’t wanted to make the effort. A  growl shaped his mouth into something savage. Why did he always do this to himself?

There were arms snaring him, suddenly, from close behind; one round his shoulders and the other round his waist. His name urgently spoken. “Ash.”

Fletch twisted, trying to escape this person weighing him down. Plummeting out of the sunlight and into the cold shadows, the sound of rapids echoing, destroying the last illusion of peace.
“No!”

“Ash. Wake up.”

It was completely dark. Fletch lay, wary and still, breath heaving. He was in a bed. Some internal voice was telling him it was okay now, it had just been another dream, but his sense of danger was having trouble catching up with his intellect.

“Are you all right?” The tone was of enforced patience.

Albert. Fletch was in Albert’s bed, lying in Albert’s embrace. They had only been lovers for a couple of months and had spent far less than half of those nights together, but already they fell naturally into this position for sleep: Fletch lying back against Albert, who held him loosely. On the few occasions Fletch had woken first, he’d found Albert had buried his face in Fletch’s hair, mouth at the nape of Fletcher’s neck.

“Ash?”

“Yeah,” Fletch muttered, “I’m all right.”

“This is usual for you, is it? Nightmares every time you fall asleep.”

“Not every time.”

“You don’t always wake up,” Albert informed him. “You don’t remember them all.”

“Really?” Fletch brought his hands to Albert’s, so he was held in a double embrace as he considered this troubling thought. He had no reason to doubt Albert’s observations, though he knew he wasn’t supposed to have realized that Albert rarely slept a full night. “It’s this waiting that’s getting to me,” he said at last, “this waiting for another boy to die. Ever since the two years were up, I’ve known that he’s out there killing and that I didn’t stop him. All I can do is wait for another death and hope to all I believe in that I get him this time.”

“Blaming yourself is pointless and counterproductive. Not to mention self-indulgent.”

“You’re right, absolutely right.”

“Well?”

“I can see your logic, I know intellectually that you’re right. But that doesn’t mean that my heart or my conscience know it.” Fletch sighed. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Albert, and we never agree. Can’t you just accept how I feel?”

“Obviously you can’t accept it, or you wouldn’t wake up yelling so frequently.”

“Why won’t you understand how ghoulish this feels? To know that some poor boy’s being tortured and murdered, and we’re waiting for someone to find his body?”

Albert was silent.

“Okay, fine - give me a hard time about it in the morning. But, right now, how about you just pretend you sympathize?”

“I am definitely sorry for you,” Albert said dryly.

“Not half as sorry for me as I am. You get impatient with the whole issue, Caroline’s more than half convinced I’m making it all up - whose shoulder am I supposed to cry on?” It had been even more difficult and frustrating when Caroline had begun to give him nothing but routine duties, which were unlikely to cause a problem if he made mistakes or wanted to fly off to Oregon with no notice, but that couldn’t serve to distract him from the days sliding past.

“I don’t suppose you discuss this with your father.”

“No,” Fletch said flatly. He was under oath to keep any Bureau case confidential. Though he suspected he’d happily break that oath if he didn’t feel Peter Ash would be as uncomfortable with Fletcher’s empathic understanding of this murderer as Albert was unsympathetic.

“Perhaps you should see someone who’s qualified to deal with this.”

“What?” Fletch was flabbergasted. He twisted around to see Albert’s face, which was closed tight. “You don’t believe in shrinks and things.”

“I don’t need a therapist,” Albert amended. “But I am beginning to suspect you might.”

“No way. Where do you get off suggesting I do something that you never would?”

“You enjoy this unbalanced state of mind?”

“I hate to break it to you but I’ve always relied on myself and a few select friends to maintain that balance. And you are my best and closest friend.”

“You’re being ridiculous. A qualified practitioner would simply aim to help you cope with reality.”

“If you want to spend the night trying to agree on a definition of reality,” Fletch snapped, “that’s fine by me.”

“Now you’re being infantile as well. Perhaps I should have been clearer - the realities of your life and your situation.”

Silence, though Fletch didn’t move out of Albert’s arms. He’d been unfair, he admitted to himself; Albert had Fletch’s best interests at heart, even if he had a rather abrupt bedside manner. Ash suddenly laughed, having realized something he should have thought of years ago. “You’re qualified, aren’t you?”

A moment’s pause, as if Albert was surprised. “You’re not yet a suitable subject for forensic psychology.”

“I mean, you’re a doctor. Though no one calls you Dr  Sterne.”

Albert shrugged. “I began working at the Bureau forensics lab while I was still studying.”

“And you never made a fuss when you qualified and neither, of course, did they.”

“It enabled me to earn promotion to the position I occupy now. I  started as a lab assistant.”

Ash almost laughed again: Albert would indeed be difficult to work for, with his high and exacting standards. What could be worse for some people than working for a boss who knew how their job should most perfectly be done because he’d done it himself? Under the circumstances, they couldn’t even justifiably complain about the situation. Fletch said, “That’s quite an achievement, working full time and finishing your studies, especially in such a demanding area. And I’ll bet you became a doctor at a younger age than usual, too.”